Into the Devil's Underground (22 page)

“Sorry. Guess you get immune to it after a while.”

“You couldn’t be immune to what we saw today. Those people shouldn’t have to live that way.” Nathan thought seeing innocent lives lost would be the worst experiences of his career He was wrong. Seeing the living existing in the filth and sadness of the tunnels was far more painful.

“No, they shouldn’t.” Ronson pulled out her phone and began typing in a note in the memo pad. “But some are there by choice, whether it’s from drugs or simply not wanting to be a part of proper society like Snake.”

“It’s more than that,” Nathan argued. “Like Angel. She’s doing drugs to numb the pain. She fell through the cracks in a screwed up system.”

“She really got to you, huh?”

Nathan switched on the radio. Tense moments had followed after leaving Angel, and Nathan waited for Avery to start in. But either the stench or some tiny sense of compassion had kept him quiet. Nathan was grateful. He didn’t want to talk about Jimmy anymore, and then Ronson spoke up.

“I heard about your uncle,” Ronson said.

Nathan looked sharply at her. “Johnson tell you?”

“No. I’m an FBI agent. I do have my ways.”

Of course. She had access to his records. “Good. Then I don’t have to tell you the details.”

“You were just a kid.”

“I’ve had this conversation before, Agent.” His tone was deliberately curt.

Ronson dumped her phone into her bag and reclined her seat. Her sunglasses covered her eyes, but Nathan sensed her stare.

“I don’t mean to pry. But I saw the pain on your face when Angel talked about guilt. She’s right. You need to let that go, Madigan.”

Let it go. How was Nathan supposed to do that when he saw guilt every time he looked in the mirror? When remorse ate away at his insides every time his father wouldn’t look him in the eyes?

“It’s not that easy.”

“Nothing in life is easy.”

Nathan pulled into a vacant spot in downtown command’s back lot. “What do you think about Snake? Is he sitting in jail, or did Creepy snuff him out?”

Ronson acknowledged the change of subject with a wry smile and a nod of her head. “I’m not sure Creepy is a murderer. He was in disguise in the tunnels and has enough confidence to think no one can ID him. My gut tells me Snake’s sitting in county lockup.”

“He’s your best chance, so I hope to God you’re right.”

“Me too.”

*   *   *   *

E
MILIE THUMBED THROUGH
the old photos one by one, unsure of why she’d dug the box out of the closet. She only had her grandmother for seven short years, but they were easily the best of her life. Most of the Polaroids were wrinkled, their glossy colors faded with age. Emilie and Mémé at Christmas, baking the Easter ham, weeding the garden. Several pictures of items inside her grandparents’ store. Their small antique shop in New Orleans had always been full of eclectic pieces, from jewelry to mismatched dishes to furniture. Emilie’s hand drifted to the bell around her neck. Mémé said the silver and emerald necklace belonged to a Creole family who’d settled in the area more than two hundred years ago. The piece was her grandmother’s favorite, and Emilie never had the value of it confirmed. She didn’t care.

Her gaze landed on a picture of the interior of the shop. Emilie was about five years old, her hair a brighter red and in tangled curls. She sat on the counter, holding a tarnished spoon and talking to a young man with coffee-colored skin, typical of the New Orleans Creole population. His long sideburns and fitted, washed-out denim jacket made him look like every other male in the eighties, but the angular planes of his thin face looked familiar to Emilie. There was no writing on the Polaroid.
Obviously, I knew him as a kid
. She dropped the picture into the box and looked at the next one. This one was of her mother: a sullen, blond beauty working behind the counter in a place she hated. The same man stood leaning against the counter, this time posing for the picture.

Shock rippled through Emilie as if she’d stuck her finger in a live outlet. Sticky fear coated her mouth like sludge, her muscles locked up, her pulse sprinted until she couldn’t catch her breath. He was younger, more handsome. But the sad eyes hadn’t changed. The man in the picture was Creepy. He’d known Emilie as a child. He’d known Mémé. And he’d known her mother. A new round of dread circled like the scavenging birds of the Nevada desert.

She had to call Claire.

The home number hadn’t changed. Claire hated change, which always blew Emilie’s mind, since she’d uprooted her daughter from the only home she’d ever known without a second thought. But Claire’s phone number was in the status area code—one of the richest areas of Portland—and she had no doubt her mother would take the number to her grave.

“Hello?” Claire still had the gravelly smoker’s voice, but age deepened it.

“It’s Emilie.” Her pride screamed at her rational side. She’d sworn she’d never speak to this woman again.

“Well, this is a surprise.” Nothing more. No how are you, no asking about the man trying to kidnap her.

“It shouldn’t be.” Emilie countered with as much detachment as her mother. “You know what’s going on out here.”

Claire sighed. “Is this about my speaking to that blogger?”

“She was a gossip blogger, not a reporter. And no, it isn’t. You’re free to say whatever you wish.”
Even if it’s a pile of lies. You’ll never admit the truth, anyway
.

“Then why are you calling?” A beat passed before Claire made a noise that almost sounded like happiness. “Are you wanting to apologize and mend fences?”

Emilie drove back the angry laugh. “Do you want to apologize and mend fences?”

“I have nothing to apologize for.” And just like that, any resemblance of maternal instinct Claire might have developed evaporated.
She’s still the same hateful narcissist.

“Me either. I’m actually calling about a picture I found in the box of stuff from Mémé.”

Claire hissed. “I don’t want to hear about anything that woman left you.”

After nearly thirty years, Claire still resented her mother leaving all of her assets to Emilie: her townhouse in the Garden District, her numerous investments, her safety deposit box with several expensive pieces of jewelry. Claire only received the deed to the antique store, which she promptly sold, claiming it never made a dime anyway. As if Emilie’s grandparents’ wealth appeared out of nowhere.

“I suppose you’ve gone through your inheritance and need help from Sam and me?”

You’d love that. I’d live on the streets before I asked you for money.
“No. My inheritance is still invested and doing well, thank you. I wanted to ask you about a man in a picture.”

“How am I supposed to remember a man from thirty years ago?”

“You might not, but unfortunately, you’re the only person I can ask.” Emilie gritted her teeth to keep from saying anything more. “There’s a picture of he and me together. I was about five. He’s probably in his late twenties. Dressed typical. He looks like he might be Creole. And there’s another one of him when you’re behind the counter. He’s smiling and handing you some kind of necklace.”

“I don’t remember,” Claire snapped. “And I don’t know why you care.”

“He’s got his left ear pierced,” Emilie said. “The ear ring is a tiny gold hoop, and there’s a ring on his right hand, I can’t make it out. But he’s wearing nice clothes in this one, one of the flashy suits like Tubbs from Miami Vice wore.”

“Emilie, I told you—”

“Mother.” Using the term made her feel slimy. Claire didn’t deserve it. “I’m positive this man spoke to me at an art exhibit a few months ago. I was admiring Renoir’s
Girl with a Straw Hat
. I told him about how Mémé and Grand-père met, and he was interested. So much it made me nervous.”

“Then maybe he recognized you.”

“He’s the man who tried to kidnap me from the bank.”

The line went so quiet Emilie thought her mother ended the call. Finally, Claire spoke. “You can’t be sure of that. A lot of time has passed.”

“I’m sure. It’s the eyes. I’ll never forget them.”

“You sound like a teenage drama queen. Have you not changed at all?”

Emilie slammed her fist on the hardwood floor and immediately regretted it. “Yes, Claire, I have. I am being totally rational. This man from the shop is the one after me.”

“Can you see the inside of his right wrist in either picture?”

Emilie squinted at the old photographs. “Yes, in the one with the necklace, he looks like he has a small tattoo. Maybe a letter, but I can’t tell.”

Another dreadful silence. “Mother?”

“Forget about this picture. Forget about the man. He’s someone from the past, and you need to leave him there.”

“I can’t.” Emilie’s shrill voice hurt her ears. “He’s after me.”

“It just can’t be him,” Claire said. “I’m telling you to forget about it.”

The finality of her tone set Emilie’s pent-up rage on fire. “I will go to New Orleans and track down Méme’s attorney, her old shop employees—anyone who might have an answer. So if you know who this is, you might as well tell me, because I’m going to find out.”

“I forbid you.” Claire sounded like she was spitting teeth. “You go down there asking questions, and you will stir up a hornet’s nest neither one of us needs. Let it go.”

“You’d rather I sit back and let him snatch me?” Tears threatened to supersede her anger. She couldn’t cry, not over Claire. And certainly not to her.

Ice clinked in a glass. Was Claire having her afternoon martini? “Believe it or not, I am trying to protect us both. There are things you don’t know about, and you don’t need to know about them.”

“If they involve my safety, I have a right to know.”

“I’m quite sure they don’t. They’re just secrets that will drag both of us down,” Claire said. “No, you need to forget about the picture. It’s not the same man. Focus on getting on with your life and staying safe. Whatever you did to set this man on you, stop doing it.”

“That’s your advice?” Emilie threw the pictures in the box. “As if this is all my fault?”

“I can’t talk about this anymore. You’re giving me a headache.”

“I will find out who this man is.” Emilie already knew who she’d call for help. Surely he would listen.

“Not if you have any sense. Goodbye.” The line again went silent, and this time, Claire was gone.

Emilie lay down on the cool wood floor, ignoring the discomfort. Immediately, Otis hopped from his perch on the couch and came to touch his nose to hers. She rubbed his soft fur.

“I’m okay.” She felt oddly empowered. “I’ll call Ronson and tell her about the photos. She’s got better resources, so I’ll see what she can find first. But in the meantime, I’ve got to take matters in my own hands.”

Otis settled his large body across her neck purring loudly. “Claire was sort of right. I need to stop being passive and letting other people take care of me or assume life is all good. It’s time I worked on saving myself.”

19

A
FTER A LONG
day of heat and relentless ultra-violet rays, the sun was finally fading into the distance. Cirrus clouds streaked across the sky, their feathery tips stained pink. Nathan stepped on to the walking path and scanned the area for a now-familiar head of auburn hair. Emilie had asked him to meet her at Allegro Park, a popular Henderson spot. He should have said no. SWAT had a raid scheduled for 4:00 a.m., and getting involved with a victim on any kind of personal level was bad idea. But he wanted to help her. He needed to help her.

Stragglers still inhabited the park. A woman played Frisbee with a large black lab, and Nathan smelled the tangy aroma of barbeque somewhere on the park’s five acres. A jogger ran past, then another. Nathan stepped out of their way and continued down the path. He kept an eye out for anyone fitting Creepy’s description. Most of the trees in the park were Palo Verde and the brush was relatively sparse, but there were always places to hide. Nathan didn’t like Emilie being so exposed and alone.

He rounded the bend and saw her waiting on a wooden bench near a large flowerbed of native orchids and primroses. Sitting with her back to him, she watched a colony of butterflies flit around the flowers. Her hair was down around her shoulders. The dark green tank top set off her fair skin.

“Hey,” he called out.

Emilie turned and smiled. Nathan’s heart fluttered unexpectedly. He didn’t need any attraction to this woman. The reputation of the department came first.

“You really shouldn’t be out here alone,” he chastised as he took a seat next to her. Whatever fragrance she wore smelled like the warm summer night: blooming flowers, fresh-cut grass, and a sweet scent he couldn’t describe.

She waved her iPhone at him. “Got my phone ready. Besides, I knew you were coming.”

“And I could have easily been late.”

A hummingbird buzzed past and dived between the butterflies to feast on the nectar. Emilie smiled as she watched the little bird. “Did you know that hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backwards?”

“I actually didn’t know any bird could fly backwards.”

“Yep.” She smiled as the bird flittered to the next flower. “When I was married, our house had a small backyard. No room for a dog, and Evan didn’t want one anyway. So I started collecting bird feeders. I got a lot of larks and purple martins, but the hummingbird was my favorite to watch. Busy little birds.”

“Is everything all right?” Nathan couldn’t quite pinpoint, but something in Emilie’s attitude was different. A sense of purpose, maybe. Or calm.

“Why do you ask?” Emilie tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Because you called me and asked to meet here.”

“You said I could call.”

He decided to follow her lead. Emilie’s face seemed relaxed, but her tapping foot gave her anxiety away. “Nice toenails,” Nathan said. They were painted a dark purple, and each big toe featured a yellow daisy. “That had to take a while.”

“I didn’t do it myself.” She laughed. “And the pedicurists have patterns.”

“My sister got a scorpion design once. She said it represented her love for the desert. Why the daisy?”